In My Time of Dying
by NilesDaughter
Summary: Dean Winchester never expected it to end like this. WARNING: Spoilers from the season nine finale. Read at your own risk.


**Author's Note: After watching 9.23, I had the urge to revisit the scene of Dean's death from his point of view. I like getting inside characters' heads, after all. I have never done something like this before, though, so I hope you all enjoy it. Thanks.**

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Dean Winchester had expected to kill Metatron. He had the first blade with him. After ganking Abaddon, Dean knew that the blade had been their last chance. And since killing Abaddon, despite being prolonged by her pinning him to the wall, it had been easy. Dean had seen red, and with the Blade in his hand, he felt powerful. With the Blade in his hand, Dean just _knew_ he was unstoppable. Dean had been cocky. He had believed that as he unwrapped the Blade, as he took hold of the bone handle that was quickly becoming all-too-familiar to him, felt the way the Mark of Cain made his blood sear with rage and the need to kill, that he would make quick work of Metatron. Just like he had made quick work of Abaddon.

But Dean had not anticipated just how much power the Angel Tablet was giving Metatron. And Dean sure as hell had not expected to tossed into the wall like a fucking rag doll, collapsing to the floor in a useless and breathless heap. Dean wanted Metatron to pay, for Castiel and for Kevin, but he couldn't do that if he was on the ground regaining his breath.

With something of a low growl building in the back of his throat, Dean got to his feet, blood boiling as he glared at Metatron. It was his entire fault. Gadreel, Castiel, Kevin…It was all because of the douchebag of an angel watching Dean with a smug expression.

As Dean took a step towards Metatron, the angel gave a simple flick of his hand, throwing Dean back into the wall once more. Dean collapsed, groaning, but still managing to hold onto the First Blade…until Metatron approached and kicked it out of his hands, sending the bone weapon skittering across the floor of the abandoned warehouse. As soon as the Blade left Dean's hand, his face was met with Metatron's foot sending out another swift kick. While Dean recoiled, pain shooting through his nose—it was very likely it was fractured, if not broken, though in the life of a hunter, broken bones wasn't anything new—the angel stepped down on Dean's wrist.

The crunch of breaking bones filled the air as Dean cried out in pain, rolling over to look at the foot punishing his wrist. No. Dean had not expected this at all.

"So…You took Abaddon's scalp, then you figured you'd take on little old, nebbishy me." Metatron looked down at Dean, his expression fairly neutral, but it was so damn obvious he was mocking him. "What could go wrong?" he continued, adding insult to injury.

As the angel spoke, Dean made sure to maintain eye contact with him, glaring with every ounce of his anger, as he struggled to push off Metatron's foot from where it continued to pin his wrist to the ground.

"I mean, you're powered by the bone of a jackass, and it is just _awesome_, right?" Dean wished Metatron would shut his damn cakehole as the angel leaned over, seeming to be trying to get a little closer to Dean's current level. "Here's a tip…"

Dean let out another soft almost-growl, still glaring at Metatron, still holding the angel's foot. He wanted so badly to sock the angel in the jaw. The sooner Metatron stopped pinning him down to the ground, the sooner he could retrieve the First Blade and finally kill the sonuvabitch.

"Try to be powered by the word of God!" Metatron all-but-spat before he backhanded Dean in the face.

Dean groaned, and finally felt the pressure release from his wrist. As quickly as he could—which was pretty damn slow, since Dean also hadn't counted on feeling so weak without the Blade in his hand—he stood to face Metatron. Before he could make a move on the angel, or make a step towards the Blade to retrieve it, he was hit again. And again. And again. For having a vessel much smaller than himself, Metatron sure was managing to beat the crap out of Dean, cornering him against the wall he had been slammed into twice. Before Dean knew it, he was on the ground again, the angel merciless in his onslaught.

Dean hated this. He was disoriented. He was finding it unusually hard to get his bearings. He was only aware of Metatron punching him over and over again…and he was all-too-painfully-aware of the fact that Cain's Blade was not in his possession. Dammit. He had wanted to survive this fight, even if only long enough to end Metatron's schemes once and for all. But at the rate he was going, Dean wouldn't even be able to do that! But maybe, just maybe, Cas would pull through for him. As long as Cas got to the Tablet…

Even if Dean couldn't deal the final blow, he sure as hell would distract Metatron long enough to stall him. Even it meant dealing with this beating. Even it meant feeling like a pathetic loser. So, despite the fact that he felt like shit, Dean allowed Metatron to hold his face in two hands for a moment, as if the angel pitied him, before he felt another punch land across his face.

Through his haze and sudden fatigue, Dean forced his eyes open, even if just a fraction and his eyes found it. The Blade. It was only a few feet away, lying atop a metal grill in the floor that poured golden light. It was like in Cleveland. Slowly, Dean stretched out a hand, willing the Blade to return to his hand…After quivering for a few moments, the First Blade flew across the floor and into its familiar place, within the grasp of Dean's right hand.

As soon as the Blade was in his possession, Dean felt a resurgence of energy, his blood once again boiling with the urge to kill something, preferably Metatron. But before he could take a swing at the angel, Dean felt something else he hadn't been expecting when he'd walked into the warehouse only a few minutes ago.

A blade.

At some point, probably when Dean was too focused on calling the First Blade to his hand, Metatron had drawn his angel blade.

And the metallic silver weapon was currently being shoved into Dean's chest.

_Fuck_.

Dean gasped, his grip on the bone weapon in his hand becoming slack. His breath was quickly becoming ragged, and he glanced up at Metatron, seeing an equal amount of hate in the angel's eyes, and Dean let out another harsh gasp as the blade was twisted to cause more damage. Eyes growing wide, Dean slowly looked down at himself as Metatron yanked the blade out of him.

In the distance, Dean heard a single word.

"No!"

Dammit. So Sammy hadn't stayed out as long as Dean had hoped. The last thing he needed was for Sam to see that he'd failed. Moving as if time was slowing down, second by painful second, Dean turned his head. He was searching for Sammy, his Sammy. He needed to know that even if he had failed, even if he was gone, he had to know that his brother was there for him.

But Dean couldn't hold himself up anymore. It felt as if someone had pulled the plug on Dean's energy reserve, and he was slumping over, hitting the floor for the third time that evening.

"Hey!" Sam was there, helping Dean back up into a sitting position. "Hey. Hey, hey, hey. Hey." Sam seemed unsure of what to do with his hands after he helped him up.

Before the younger Winchester could do much else, the warehouse trembled, rather violently, as if they were experiencing an earthquake. Dean managed to flick his gaze up towards the ceiling, hoping against all hope that that was Cas destroying the Angel Tablet…Dean was barely aware that Sam had left his side, just for a moment, drawing an angel blade out of his coat pocket before attempting to take a stab at Metatron before the angel disappeared.

_Cas, you better have found that Tablet._

Letting out a frustrated growl, Sam dropped back down to his knees to check on Dean's wound. His brother paled, and his breathing hitched as he scrambled to pull out a handkerchief from his jacket, frantically pressing the green square of fabric to the injury. Sam was breathing heavily, the sort that betrayed his worry and desperation.

"Sammy…" Dean managed to get out. Damn. Who knew talking required so much effort? He tried to bat Sam's hand away, but it was a weak and pathetic attempt. "You gotta get outta here before he comes back," he finished, but not without unnecessary effort.

"Shhh, shh…Shut up. Shut up. Just save your energy, alright?"

Shit. Sam's voice was laced with panic. Dean groaned, both because of the panic he heard, and because of the momentary pressure his brother had put on his wound. Sam wasn't going to let him go that easily. But Dean knew. He knew this was it. Dean knew he had fucked up, and that he was going to die. Though, if what Crowley said was true…Death was better than letting the Mark change him to something unrecognizable. Dean realized that now.

"We'll stop the bleeding," Sam continued desperately. "We'll get you to a doctor, or, uh, or find a spell…You're gonna be okay!"

No. No, Dean wouldn't allow that. He had already been ruined enough by the Blade and the Mark. He didn't want to survive this. Not if it meant he would just become something despicable. And Dean had to make Sam realize that.

He reached out and gripped Sam's arm, trying to make him understand. "Listen to me. It's better this way."

And Dean knew in an instant that Sam didn't understand. Not in the way that his brother looked at him as if he was crazy. The disbelief in his eyes. Dean couldn't help but take note of the irony. When Dean had done everything he could to bring Sammy back from the brink of death, his brother had been so pissed at him. Said he had wanted to die. Said that if the situations were reversed, he wouldn't have done the same thing for Dean. And yet, here they were, and Sam was trying so hard to get Dean to hold on, to stay with him.

"What?" Sam asked, startled and confused…refusing to believe what Dean had just admitted to. Sam refused to acknowledge Dean's defeat.

But Sam had to accept. Still struggling to find enough breath to speak, Dean tried to explain himself. "The Mark…It's making me into something I don't wanna be."

Sam shook his head, still desperate to believe he could save his brother. "Don't worry about the Mark. We'll figure out the Mark later. Just hold on. Okay?" He stood, reaching down to support Dean, to help him to his feet. As he reached down, he added, "Give me some help."

Dean groaned as he was jostled, and helped into a standing position. Yeah. Dean definitely wasn't going to make it out the warehouse alive. Everything hurt, and he was drifting already. But Sammy wouldn't listen.

"Alright, help me up," Sam added in a quiet, but still panicked, voice. Slowly, he helped Dean walk forward, towards the exit, while Dean continued to clutch the handkerchief to his chest, more as a show to appease his brother.

"What happened to you being okay with this?" Dean asked, wondering if maybe it would help to soften the loss if he acted like he was back to normal, even if for a moment. It might help Sam if he was the Dean his brother remembered, back before the Mark of Cain began to twist him.

"I lied," Sam replied, still helping him across the floor.

"Ain't that a bitch," Dean retorted, aiming for humor, but only succeeding in sounding breathless, before he let out another groan of pain. He was growing weaker with every step, even with Sam supporting him. "Sam, hold up. Hold up!" Dean started tilting sideways, dragging Sam with him as they teetered off course.

Sam grunted, trying to keep a hold on Dean, safely getting him to something he could prop himself on.

Dean's breath was more laborious than before, but he felt a ghost of a smile on his face. His time was up. But he couldn't go. Not yet. Not like this. Not without telling Sammy…

"I gotta say something to you," he murmured, struggling to lift his head, to meet his brother's gaze.

Sam's eyes darted about, taking in Dean's face. He looked as worried as ever. His baby brother might even be fighting the urge to cry, because his hazel eyes looked moist. "What?" he asked in a tone of voice that indicated he dreaded what Dean was going to say.

Continuing to struggle with maintaining consciousness, Dean bit out, "I'm proud of us," as he placed a hand on the side of Sam's head in one last gesture of brotherhood. The last bit of life leaving his limbs, Dean felt himself tilt forward into Sam, barely aware that his brother had prevented him from hitting the floor.

"No, no, hey, hey, hey. Hey. Hey. Hey, wake up, buddy." Sam's hands were on either side of his face, holding him, refusing to let go. But Sammy would have to.

Because Dean was fading.

The blackness was swallowing him up.

Dean was…

Gone.


End file.
